


it's what you do (that pulls me through)

by blanchtt



Series: you see through me (i come alive) [1]
Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 07:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15431601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: It takes marriage and country club parties and a few apparently not-just-lucky flukes, a comment here and there that had seemed obvious to Carol, for her to find her specialty.





	it's what you do (that pulls me through)

**Author's Note:**

> I may have screwed up the details, but a long time ago I thought I saw an ask where someone suggested Therese having a knack for this specific thing I'm not going to spoil, and then I thought about what that would be for Carol and as usual this prompt just got away from me and turned into this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 _There are things_ , Carol remembers her mother telling her, _that you may be good at. But you mustn’t let anyone know._

 

And so, for quite a while, Carol had though that every family had functioned exactly the same way. Wasn’t it always like that? As a child a kiss from her mother on a scraped knee would soothe the sting and stop her crying, or the touch of her hand on her head at night, stroking her hair, would lull her warm and drowsy straight to sleep. It was simply what mothers did.

 

It’s when she’s almost twelve, old enough, that she understands.

 

She burns her thumb ironing because she’s _never_ been good at it, and winces at the pain, hand curled in a fist and held close to her stomach. Ice, she thinks, and heads to the kitchen, hopes there’s some in the icebox and steps around her mother preparing dinner.

 

If there’s one thing she envies her mother for, it’s her almost clairvoyant perceptiveness.

 

“Here,” her mother says, one hand outstretched toward her while she stirs something with the other, having taken over the help’s duties briefly, and Carol stops rummaging through the icebox, turns, holds out her hand.

 

Her mother’s touch is surprisingly cool, hand curled in her own, and her thumb smooths over her own, slowly, and the sting of the burn begins to fade, disappears by the time her mother has let go and turned back to the stove.

 

Her father is in the living room, smoking and reading, and the help is setting the table, and it is so quick and wordless and generally unnoticed upon that what has just happened is, Carol finally understands, their secret, just the two of them.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

  

She’s burned enough roasts to know that her specialty is not in any sort of hearth-keeping or homemaking. Neither is it in healing, or in luck, or in premonition.

 

It takes marriage and country club parties and a few apparently not-so-lucky flukes, a comment here and there that had seemed obvious to Carol, for her to find her specialty.

 

In stolen moments she bows her head with friends, knows it looks like little more to those uninterested than two woman giggling together, lets Alice know that Jack fancies her back or quietly tells Olive that two rosehip petals in a silver cup will stir the passion back into their marriage, before slipping back to the party.

 

(The latter is more difficult because there is nothing passed down and no one to ask, and she works _hard_ at it, finds through various means information that should not exist, tests and tests and tests it, and when it works feels like she’s finally found what she’s been born to do.)

 

She gains a reputation, and while the men smoke cigars and drink brandy the women seek her out, ask her how to attract a lover or keep a husband, the words that might make love last longer, what to take to conceive a long-sought daughter. She suggests, nudges, indirect, and watches happy couple after happy couple grow, start a family, thrive, and is overjoyed for them.

 

And so Carol wonders once again, drinking alone in the kitchen until late into the night—until Harge has fallen asleep and she can slip into bed undisturbed—why it seems so difficult for her.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

  

She has so far moved about life without instruction, and she feels no shame at all in the look Abby gives her.

 

“It’s never worked for me,” Abby says plainly, as if it were matter-of-fact, and takes a sip of her drink, and Carol almost laughs, almost slings back at her _but you always win at cards_ , except there is Rindy in her lap, head against her shoulder as she sleeps, and so Carol only lets out an amused noise, which Abby only smiles at.

 

“It never does,” Abby reiterates, and now that she’s said it, yes, Carol can begin to see it. Abby leans back, fingertips tapping against the stem of her martini glass. “Didn’t your mother tell you?”

 

What must it have been like, Carol thinks with no trace of acrimony, to have moved though life, knowing. She shifts just a bit to ease Rindy into a more comfortable position, holds her daughter close, and wonders vaguely how she’s gotten so big already.

 

“No,” she admits, and she is glad for the privacy of Abby’s apartment, to be able to speak freely, and for Abby, who leans forward, careful of Rindy, and whose fingers tilt her chin up and who kisses her briefly, softly, and once again Carol feels understanding blossom within her, long-awaited.

 

“It wouldn’t be natural for us to be able to be so in control of ourselves,” Abby explains, getting up smoothly to refill her drink, and Carol lets out a little _ah_ of acknowledgement, knows now that just like luck surrounds Abby and Abby _uses_ it that she’s not doomed to a loveless life, only that she’s going to have to work a little harder at it to make it happen for herself.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

  

The news of divorce, surprisingly, does nothing to her professional reputation. Her social reputation, however, is darkly marked, but Carol cares little about it anyway and is more than happy to leave those stiff circles with their endless list of rules behind and to find new ones to run more freely in.

 

The only thing that causes her heart to seize in her throat is Harge, but whether because of his mother’s dislike of her or a man’s natural aversion to childrearing, Harge does not fight her on the logic of what she proposes, and Carol knows she’s dodged a bullet, gladly accepts to have Rindy visit him on holidays.

 

She takes an apartment in the city, all the easier to blend into namelessly, unseen, and finds new clientele through word of mouth and with Abby’s help. Her work allows for her to have Rindy by her side constantly, at least until she’s old enough for school come fall, and after dinner she sits at the kitchen table, Rindy next to her, and peels the petals off a rose, hands them to her daughter and watches inquisitive eyes inspect it, little tongue poking out of her mouth seriously before Rindy drops it in the jar of oil, just like she’s shown her how to.

 

“What are we gonna make with this?” Rindy asks, and Carol reaches over, adds her own to the jar.

 

“We’ll let it sit for six months,” Carol tells her, and Rindy nods as she continues, trying her best to impart the knowledge she’s had to fight for. “And this we can use this for spells or for food.” It’s her specialty, not Rindy’s, and Carol wonders what’s in store for her, knows that whatever Rindy is best at she’ll do all she can to help her.

 

Rindy nods, and looks up at her, and Carol can’t help but bend to press a kiss to the crown of her head, add, “Or lotion.”

 

Rindy brightens at that more so than anything else, and it’s not the first nor will it be the last time that they’ve played dress up together, ransacking her vanity for perfume and eyeliner and anything else they could use. It might all very well end up as lotion this time, because few things are more precious than her daughter’s smile.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

  

It might not be what she does best, but she _tries_ to cook, and after being disappointed enough times by the dry, brittle rosemary at the grocer’s, she wanders even further into unknown territory, leaves Rindy with Abby for an hour or two and searches for a florist.

 

She finds one just under ten minute’s drive away, parks and turns off the engine and gets out.

 

Inside, she picks her way through a veritable jungle of flowers, concrete floor damp and gritty under her heels, and finds the counter, manned only by a thin young woman, reading curled over a book.

 

Carol approaches apparently unnoticed, and she stands there for a moment, lets out a small sound as she clears her throat, watches the woman startle, look up with wide eyes.

 

“Sorry,” she says, tucking the book away under the counter, and Carol waves the apology away with a hand.

 

“It’s quite alright.” It’s a rare sight, and far be it from her to discourage an avid reader. “This might be an odd question,” she starts with a bit of a laugh, and the girls smiles at her admission—Carol’s sure she hardly looks the type to be taking care of plants. “Do you by any change happen to have any rosemary?”

 

The girl’s bob sways as she shakes her head.

 

“Just flowers, I’m afraid,” she answers, and thinks a moment before saying, “You’d probably want a hardware store for that. The garden part.”

 

“Just my luck,” Carol breathes out, and she looks away, tries to think of the nearest one before turning back to the woman. That's what she gets for trying. “Well, thank you for your help, Ms…”

 

“Belivet,” the woman offers, and then contemplates, bites her lip, and finally decides before offering, “If you come back tomorrow, I’ll have one for you.”

 

“My. Special delivery,” Carol says lightly, and watches the young woman’s cheeks turn pink. “You’re a lifesaver.”

 

She leaves with the promise to return tomorrow, chances a glance back over her shoulder as she pauses in the doorway and raises her hand in a parting wave.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

  

There is a lunch and drinks, Therese a font of wit and quick to smile behind a quiet façade, and Carol wonders—hope quietly, eagerly outpacing caution—if _this_ is what it feels like. And it must be, because she tilts her head and smiles and understands each small sliver of truth Therese offers up at the same time both casually and guardedly for what it is, and offers her own in return.

 

The little pot containing a sprig of rosemary takes its place on her kitchen windowsill as naturally as Therese does in her life, and thrives just as easily.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

  

It is no accident that Therese works where she works. The progress is incremental, but upon coming home one wintery night it strikes Carol just how much her home has becomes a greenhouse, wonderfully overgrown—leaves unfurl, coaxed open in just the right amount of light; vines reach down from pots to sunny windowsills and curl over each other in competition; flowers bloom brighter and more sinuous than O’Keefes. Carol welcomes it all, never having had a green thumb herself, though she has to admit most of all she might appreciate the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table.

 

There is the sound of little feet running, and Carol shrugs off her coat, lays it over the back of the couch just in time for Rindy to come darting around the corner, and Carol catches her as Rindy flings herself at her, lifts her up and kisses her cheek before settling her on her hip, swaying a bit with the weight of her.

 

“My sweet pea,” Carol murmurs, hugging her close, and of course Therese is not far behind, and Carol greets her with a kiss too, steadies a hand on her waist and lets their lips brush, both teasing and promising. 

 

There is dinner together, as always, and she helps Rindy cut her food, sees a little flower behind her ear that has escaped her notice so far but that Therese no doubt has put there, and then a bath for Rindy, and drinks together, curled into a corner of the couch, after Rindy's been put to bed.

 

And later, alone, Therese under her, Carol kisses her, feels hands at her breasts, reverent, and slinks lower, teasing all the way. Therese is petal-soft under her tongue, wet, and Carol savors every lick, every gasp, the flood that comes when Therese does.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

  

It is easy to grow from a family of two to three, just not quite the same way others do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


End file.
